


Getting Dirty, Coming Clean

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: tumblr mugged me in a back alley [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Laundry, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Texting, clint's ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 11:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18619678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Clint never does laundry, so when he has to do laundry, he doesall the laundry.[MandatoryFunday prompt]





	Getting Dirty, Coming Clean

**Author's Note:**

> yyyyyep I gotta blame our Arson Baby candycanedarcy and the rest of the Bad Decisions Discord for this one

Bucky huffs angrily as he picks up his plastic container of laundry soap. Mostly he’s glad that his relationship with Natalia has leveled out to the point where she can ask him for favors, but sometimes, it’s really frustrating. He can’t read her much, anymore, and so the point where she’s asking a serious favor versus asking an amusing favor is a line Bucky hasn’t quite learnt to see, yet; and he’s still working on earning Avenger goodwill, no matter how many times Stevie says he doesn’t need to. 

And even if this is some kind of Natalia joke, Bucky thinks, it isn’t like it’s a hardship for him to go help out Clint. He hopes Natalia hasn’t figured it out, cause he’s tried to put every ounce of his ill-begotten training into hiding his own interest cause the part of his brain still stuck back in the 40s thinks he still has to. And if that ain’t messed up - using seventy years of brainwashing training to block out a notion he knows is old-fashioned - Bucky ain’t sure what is, but messed up is still better than Natalia, or Stevie, or _Clint_ figurin’ out that he has some kind of notions towards their archer teammate.

With all of that in the back of his head, though, Bucky still ain’t sayin’ no to the chance to go catch Clint outside of normal hours. They hang out plenty, but it’s gettin’ regular: one of them finding the other in the shooting range, or in the shared theater room watching something at 0200 hours, or even sitting down after a mission to watch some kinda crap Clint always comes up with. It’s a good habit, great habit even, but Bucky’s gone enough that he’ll take any kind of jump that gives him extra time with Clint outside that habit. If that’s pathetic, well, at least he’s hidden it from Natalia for this long.

Or so he thinks -- until he shoves the door to the laundry room wide open, and his enhanced eyes spot Clint in the dark -- _totally fuck naked,_ sitting on top of one of the machines, humming to himself.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Clint yells, and in that spasm of gesture Bucky realizes he ain’t entirely naked: no, Clint’s wearing these black briefs that soak up all the light, not that he’s lookin’ or anything. “What the _fuck!_ ”

“ _Jesus shit_ ,” Bucky replies, his heart racing, trying to make it calmer than Clint’s; he wins, if only by a small margin and only cause Clint’s literally curling in on himself. “What the _fuck._ Natalia sent me down here with your _goddamned laundry detergent._ ”

“Aw, Tasha, no,” Clint moans, shoving his face into his hands momentarily before remembering that those hands have something more embarrassing to cover; they hover over his hips, awkwardly, until Clint just crosses his arms and slumps. “I told her I had to do, like, _all my laundry._ ”

“Wait,” Bucky squawks, which is embarrassing enough; “did she send me down here _knowing you were naked._ ”

“She kind of goddamn did!” Clint yelps, jumping off of the machine. He seems to realize what a bad idea that is the second his feet hit the floor, cause it gives Bucky _yards_ of skin to look at, with only a few _inches_ of dark fabric blocking his view onto that, um, particular area. And Bucky’s blown away enough with this much of Clint on display; he’s seen the bits and the pieces, sure, but with all them bits and pieces bare at the moment, Bucky isn’t even sure he’s gonna be able to hold it together.

Clint’s hands sort of hover around, up until the point where he decides he has nothing to be ashamed of, and Bucky watches in a haze as those hands come to rest on Clint’s hips.

“Well,” Clint says, and it’s a little self-righteous but a lotta unsure, “for your information, I stole Cap’s detergent, so I should be able to, uh, have some pants, in like an hour and a half or so.”

“I still feel like you need somebody to be the doorman,” Bucky says, his mouth working before his brain does. He really didn’t mean it to be so flirty, but it was, and it is, and it’s out there now. So he sets the bottle of laundry soap down on the nearest counter and leans up against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his t-shirt and settling in.

To his surprise, Clint grins, and those hips come to rest leaning up against the nearest machine. “Well, shit,” Clint drawls, “if I knew I had a bouncer I could have washed _everything._ ” The look Clint gives him is nearly filthy - is it filthy? Bucky can’t tell; Clint has most of the lights still off, and Bucky knows he could easily be imagining things.

“Do you need this or not,” Bucky manages to get out, and it’s barely a question. The thought of all of Clint’s bare skin flirting _back_ has Bucky momentarily stunned, which is usually a sign to abort and get the hell out of the situation, except that this scene is specifically relevant to Bucky’s interests and he ain’t all that concerned with leaving right now.

Clint’s eyes seem to trace him down to the bottom and then back up, but he can’t really be sure. “Yeah,” Clint says eventually, gesturing with one hand. “Bring it.”

And now Bucky has no choice but to wander over there, cause the second he makes some kind of protest with regards to Clint’s lack of attire, he knows Clint will be all over him.

So instead he takes the opposite approach and stalks over there with a determined swing to his own hips, settling the bottle down directly on top of the machine Clint’s leaning against. “Here,” he says, grinning. “If you need it.”

Clint bites his lower lip, which makes Bucky want to lick at it. “Why, thank you,” he murmurs. “My hero.”

This bit of a moment’s extending between them, and Bucky wants to recoil cause it could go really, very, super wrong, except the look in Clint’s eyes from over here - from this lighting - is low and amused, almost encouraging, and sort of hints that Clint knows something Bucky doesn’t at this point.

He goes to say something, but to his surprise, Clint jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve still got another load,” he says, and Bucky’s eyes can’t stop staring at his mouth. “You got anything to throw in?”

And, well, that’s a leading line if Bucky ever heard one, but in case he wasn’t exactly clear Clint reaches a hand out to clutch at the hem of his t-shirt. “Like this, maybe?” Clint asks, innocence and spice in his tone.

Well. Bucky may be a bit hesitant, but he ain’t dumb, and he ain’t gonna waste the opportunity. He fists his own hands in the shirt and helps Clint tug it off, over his head, and once his face is clear he leans in -- until he’s a breath, maybe two breaths, away from Clint’s mouth, and says, “I guess you’re probably right.”

And that’s all he can manage to say because Clint’s mouth turns up in a smile and his eyes flutter shut and Bucky isn’t even sure which one of them moves first but they’re kissing, right there, Clint’s lips softly demanding on his like even that’s a question. Bucky swallows the sigh he makes and gets his fingers into Clint’s hair, tilting Clint’s face down onto his until the angle’s just right for his tongue to sweep through Clint’s mouth. Clint makes this groaning sound and pulls Bucky closer so that skin’s on skin, and they press together until Clint’s own hands come up to tug Bucky’s hair and Bucky cedes, willingly, letting Clint dip down onto his mouth with an urgency he hasn’t felt in _decades._

Bucky can’t stop the noise he makes, and he kind of doesn’t want to once it makes Clint’s fingers tighten in his hair. Clint pulls his mouth away only to lick along Bucky’s jawline, and Bucky nearly _keens_ as Clint’s lips stop to suck just under his ear, his fingers tangling in Clint’s messy hair. 

Clint breaks away to pant into Bucky’s mouth, their noses brushing, his pupils blown. It’s the hottest fucking thing Bucky’s seen in a long goddamned time. His head is still tilted backwards by Clint’s hands in his hair, and normally he’d hate seeing anyone above him, but Clint’s entire expression is so goddamned _gone_ that it’s almost like Bucky could say a single word and shatter this. Not that he would, _fuck;_ he’s wanted _this_ for so long that it hurts, below his sternum, and even this distance is too far away from Clint right now.

Bucky pulls a hand from Clint’s hair and slowly traces it down Clint’s back - fingers outlining shoulderblade, then spine, then sinking to trace hipbone before settling at the very top curve of Clint’s ass. Clint shudders, and Bucky’s breathing is erratic, shivering right back into Clint as his fingers twitch against all that skin. Their eyes meet, again, and Bucky slowly fastens his fingertips into Clint’s skin to tug the other man’s hips forward into his. When Clint realizes what he’s doing, a groan catches in his throat unlike anything Bucky’s ever heard, and he remembers a few clear moments of Clint’s wanting eyes on his before Clint’s mouth descends and everything turns hazy.

Clint’s mouthing at him, tongue making a counterpoint against Bucky’s lips, and he doesn’t even have a chance to rub his hips up against Clint’s before Clint’s fingers are at the fly of his jeans. Bucky fucking groans, sighing into Clint’s mouth, now with one hand clutching at Clint’s ass and the other in Clint’s hair, tugging those lips back down onto his every time Clint seems to need a breather. 

“Let’s throw these in as well,” Clint murmurs as his quick fingers unfasten the button, unzip Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky’s murmuring something in agreement as he shifts to let Clint wrap his fingers over the hem and pull the jeans down to the floor.

“Shit,” Clint hisses, and Bucky turns his distracted gaze up to Clint’s face. Clint’s eyes are raking down Bucky’s own abdomen and over his boxers almost greedily, focused on where Bucky’s mostly-hard dick is trying to make an appearance, pushing up against the fabric. “Buck,” Clint whines, and Bucky hears _too much_ in it -- something nearly akin to his own weeks of wanting, and the small portion of his mind that isn’t entirely absorbed by Clint’s briefs wonders whether Natalia knew what she was doing with this favor.

He pauses, and then even that section of brain gives itself over to feeling, because of _course_ Natalia knew what she was doing, and he can _thank_ her later.

For now, Bucky backs Clint up against the nearest machine and tugs Clint’s face down onto his, pressing their hips together, frantic and needy. The noise Clint makes is low, hot, deserves to be enshrined somewhere, and Clint shifts his thigh between Bucky’s such that Bucky - only slightly shorter - is leaning forwards on it, thrusting up against it, and trying to rub his hipbone against Clint’s hard cock with every move he makes until they’re both moving against each other, uncontrolled and wanting.

This is good, this is _better than good,_ but Bucky wants to see Clint’s cock, wants to taste it and feel it in his hand, in his mouth, and his fingers tug at the band of Clint’s briefs like a question.

“Shit, Barnes,” Clint breathes into his mouth, but he shifts so that there’s enough of a gap for Bucky’s fingers to work the fabric down and away. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Bucky chucks the fabric away and then lets Clint pull his own boxers down over his thighs, and knees, and kicks it away once at his ankles. “Fuck, Barton,” he says as Clint’s long fingers wrap over his hips and pull them up against each other. Clint’s cock is hot and hard against the skin of his hip and Bucky hisses as his own dick presses into the curls of Clint’s pubic hair, the heat of the crease between crotch and hip, and these sensations are gonna fucking _kill_ him if he doesn’t come soon.

He’s about to shift his weight when Clint pulls his mouth away to breathe against Bucky’s collarbone, lips and teeth and tongue working a rhythm on the skin there, and when Clint breathes, “Shit, Buck, can I?” Bucky has no better response than a nod before Clint sinks down onto his knees on the floor of the laundry room.

The goddamned _view_ is rich enough that Bucky almost comes all over Clint’s hand as he reaches up and softly grabs Bucky’s cock. Clint’s looking up at him, eyes wide and blown, his mouth reddened and rough as he lips at the head of Bucky’s dick. Bucky’s gone, watching it, Clint’s tongue flicking out against the slit, and he has to grip at the edge of the machine behind Clint to keep his balance as Clint licks up his length before sucking the tip into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Bucky blurts out, “fucking hells, Clint,” and Clint works his tongue against Bucky’s slit again and Bucky can’t help it when he thrusts his hips forwards against the flat of Clint’s tongue. Clint makes a noise that’s pleased and wanton at the same time and Bucky’s pressing farther, and Clint lets him, until Bucky’s deep in Clint’s mouth with Clint’s whole throat swallowing around him and his world turns white until Clint backs off, slightly, giving Bucky breathing room. 

“Oh, god,” Bucky says except that it’s a _whine,_ needy and wanting and weak; “don’t stop,” he says, and Clint surges forward again to swallow Bucky’s cock down, and it’s really minimal movement and motion until Bucky’s eyes smash themselves shut and Bucky comes with a twisted howl down Clint’s throat.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” Bucky’s saying when he comes back into himself, his hips still working a low stutter of aftershocks into Clint’s mouth. _“Fuck.”_ Bucky pulls back, and shudders as his dick pulls out over Clint’s soft lips, but then he’s pulling Clint upwards and pressing him back against the machine again, tugging his head down and licking into his mouth. That salty taste must be his, and it has Bucky making some noise deep in his throat as he pulls Clint hard against him, tongues working hard against each other as Bucky enjoys the hardness of Clint’s dick up against his own sensitive flesh. 

He pulls away and slams Clint’s hips back up against the edge of the machine. “Stay there,” he hisses, and Clint makes this whining noise as Bucky bends down to lap pressure against one of Clint’s nipples before lowering down to his knees on the cold floor.

He barely notices, though, between the hot hardness of Clint’s cock against his cheek, the scent of Clint himself - sweat, and some woodsy tang - up against his nose as he licks into the dip of Clint’s skin between groin and hip. _Fuck,_ but it’s delicious, topped with the noise Clint makes, absolutely no restraint in his throat as he moans loudly. Bucky sucks at the skin and hair until there’s a mark there, one he knows will look purple-dark against the light, and then turns his face into Clint’s dick, slowly mouthing his way up its length.

“My fucking God, Buck,” Clint gasps out, and Bucky looks up to note that Clint’s hands are gripping hard at the edge of the machine behind him, knuckles almost as white as the appliance.

Bucky responds by pulling the tip of Clint’s dick into his mouth. He tongues at the bottom, then brings a hand up to hold Clint’s shaft in place as he pops his lips forwards and then backwards over the bottom edge of the head. He loves feeling that, the pressure of the swollen ridge against his mouth, and Clint makes this noise like he’s being strangled that Bucky interprets as encouragement. He sets his lips right below the rim, so that it’s just the head of Clint’s cock in his mouth, and then sucks _hard,_ loving the way it fills his mouth, loving the sound Clint’s making as he does so.

Bucky pulls off, grinning up at Clint, and gets a split-second view of Clint’s face - lax, surprised, overwhelmed - before he sinks back down and works Clint’s dick all the way to the back of his throat. 

Bucky’s maybe not as good at this as Clint - and _fuck,_ that had been a _surprise_ \- but Bucky knows how to work between his fist and his mouth to make up for the fact that he can’t deepthroat someone for days, and that’s what he does. His fist is slick, now, spit and sweat and precum letting him glide tension all the way to the tip before sliding the pressure back down all the way to the base, his hungry mouth following. He loves the taste of Clint’s dick, the weight against his tongue; he can feel it as Clint gets closer, his dick swelling until Clint’s hands are in Bucky’s hair and he’s gasping a litany of words and curses as Bucky hollows his cheeks to suck Clint down as he comes.

He swallows the hot liquid and then keeps swallowing, his hand working Clint in slow pumps until he’s sure the other man is done, aftershocks shuddering against Bucky’s lips, and Bucky moves to mouth the line of Clint’s hipbone instead, waiting for Clint to be here and coherent and suddenly almost a little embarrassed.

What he gets is Clint sliding down, his back against the washing machine as his body collapses to the floor, until his arms are around Bucky’s shoulders and he’s pressing messy, wanton kisses against every surface he finds: Bucky’s cheek, his neck, his shoulder; the hollow of his throat.

Bucky pulls him forward until they’re kissing again, again, and again, tongues just brushing as they dissolve into something that’s breathy and sloppy and not laughing but not tears, either.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, finally, breath gusting against Bucky’s cheekbone with a hitch that might be a laugh. “Shit, Buck, did that really just happen?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m bare-assed on the floor, Barton.” Bucky leans in to mouth at Clint’s throat, that fucking tender skin he wants to mark up with his teeth.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Clint says, and his hands are all over Bucky as if he needs to remember: up Bucky’s back, then one into his hair as the other one sinks to grab his ass, then fingers working their way over his hipbone just so that Clint can drag knuckles up his abs and chest to his shoulder. “Oh my _fucking_ god, Buck.”

Bucky laughs into Clint’s neck, suddenly happy and light with it, licking against the skin there before he kisses the spot tenderly.

“Do you have any clothes left?” Bucky asks, slowly tilting his head until he’s looking up into Clint’s face. “Like, enough that we could make it up a couple floors in the elevator without a disaster happening?”

Clint grins down at him, filthy and fond all at the same time. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs, leaning forward again to kiss along Bucky’s temple. “It’s not like I do laundry all that often.”

Bucky snorts. “Obviously, if you’re always stealing someone else’s detergent.”

Clint freezes, and then snorts, reaching over into a laundry basket and pulling out his mobile. “You know what? She owes me.”

“Natalia?” Bucky asks, surprised, and when Clint nods confirmation while hastily typing away, Bucky huffs a small laugh. “I think I might owe _her,_ ” he admits. 

Clint’s eyes flick over to Bucky, and his face lights up with this crooked little smile Bucky’s never seen before. It makes something twist in his chest. “Yeah,” Clint says, “I know she did this on purpose.” And that tells Bucky somethin’ about Clint’s feelings, don’t it, and the warmth in his chest flips over again.

He’s about to say something sappy and stupid, but then Clint continues cheerfully, looking back down at his phone. “That being said, I’m pretty sure she’s tired of seeing my bare ass in public. Bet I can get her to run interference long enough for us to head… somewhere?”

Clint glances back up at him, question in his eyes.

“My room,” Bucky says decisively, and catches a flicker of that smile on Clint’s face again. “ _I_ have clean clothes I can lend you.”

“Hmm,” Clint hums, typing away. “Bold of you to assume we’ll need clothes.”

 

  



End file.
